We’ve got a mountain on the horizon,

A sun on the floor,

The sea in the sky,

And the devil behind the door.

Moods of Rain

Moods of Rain

Rain twisting down the air poles

Like a broken river.

Slicing through the air. Cold

Biting me, I shiver.

Get your Manchester Evening News.

Soggy paper, running print,

I’ve got those winter dark blues.

Wet, cold, and skint.

The rip in the side of my pocket

Lets trickles of rain tickle the palm of my hand,

The picture distorted and wet in its locket.

Give me sunshine and sweet golden sand.

I’m giving up dodging glassy-eyed puddles,

My feet like the kitchen cloth,

Face screwed up, no time for scruples.

Head down, walk straight and cough,

And silver speckled my licks are crowned.

Melting Black faces drip and shine,

No smile but an unsatisfied frown,

Same goes, I think, for mine.

Stepping through mirrored streets,

Reflections of the dirty skies,

Soaked from my head to my feet,

Drips from my lashes sting in my eye.

It is raining, and I give way,

Soaking and cold I should smile.

What the hell I’m wet for today

And there’s no use in getting so riled.

So kick the water, run down the road,

Hold your head up to the rain.

I was only feeling the cold,

Mind over matter over pain.

Soon I’ll be home throwing off my coat,

Wrestling with my hair,

Warm and hungry for curried goat,

And the windows haze in the air.

My merry moods

Change like the weather.

Wasita

Wasita

Was it a café window

or

A picture of a café window on a café wall

or

Was it a picture of a café wall and a café window on a café wall?

Sing a Song of Sick Penance

Sing a Song of Sick Penance

You and all your arrogance,

And all your golden rings,

Stating with your marriage,

To a tune that sings.

Sing a song of sixpence,

’Cause you have got more,

Jumped right over the fence

And landed on the poor.

You and all your grandeur,

And all your stately charm,

Got to a stately figure,

By bloodshed, death and harm.

Sing a song of sixpence,

’Cause you have got more,

Jumped right over the fence

And fell for ever more.

Sing a song of sixpence,

’Cause now you’re sixpence less.

Jumped right over the fence

And now you’re in a mess.

The Black Writers’ Workshop

The Black Writers’ Workshop

We are like cement, soft and protected,

Set hard and projected, the image

Of the mould of four hundred years,

We, the ever flowing

Tears of laughter and pain

Sprinkle our stories

Like light warm rain

On eyes that search for truth.

We, like cement, are weather proof.

We, the singers of dreams,

The echoes of screams,

The rivers of crying eyes,

Inject our words of truth, of love

Into the heart of life-living lies.